


Wading the Waters

by Lidsworth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Annatar turns a new leaf, Gift Fic, M/M, Plot Twist, Redemption, Silverfisting, Tyelpe gets a big angry, i actually felt bad for annatar while writing this, set in Eregion, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Annatar confesses. Celebrimbor rages. And they reach an agreement at the end of it all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [b_ofdale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/gifts).



> So I noticed that you have been feeling down lately, also noticed a sweet comment you left on another SIlverfisting/gifting fic of mine and wanted to write you a story with Silverfisting portrayed "good" as opposed to the fandom norm. 
> 
> I like nice Silverfisting too occasionally, so hope you enjoy this ficlet.  
> also, i'm my own beta so there's bound to be mistakes. 
> 
> I live for you feedback so if you enjoy it, I would really appreciate a kudos and/or a nice comment! Critique welcomed! 
> 
> Also, i'm on [tumblr](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/)! Come chat with me there ;)

Celebrimbor looked at Mairon with an almost _inhuman_ glare, and so unnatural it was, that the maia had found himself cowering beneath the securitizing gaze. They remained still and in complete silence for a short while, as Tyelpe processed his confession.

It wasn’t until much longer that he finally spoke.

“Am I cursed, Annatar?”

The Lord swallowed at the odd question, not entirely sure what the motive was behind the sudden inquiry.

Arguably yes, for Namo had screwed the house of Fëanor over during the First Age, and unfortunately the curse had extended to a rather innocent Tyelpe at the time. Though for all his wisdom and knowledge, Annatar had known that the Curse of Mandos had not _been_ what the Lord of Eregion was referring to, yet he could find no obvious goal for the interrogation.  

In his thoughts he had remained silent, tight lipped and staring wearily at the elf who stood above the bed. He said nothing. Tyelpe took his silence as defiance.

What had been considered quite an impassive expression (if that was even accurate enough to describe Tyelpe’s face moments ago—for using such a word to explain how he _looked_ was as unjustified as saying that Mairon himself was _hot,_ for it was too little an adjective to describe him) had contorted into a twisted, feral snarl.

Within seconds he was moving like a tornado.

The books on their night stand and shelves went _flying,_ and all trinkets and pens, scrolls and inkwells followed after, creating a fantastic, _loud_ mess in their bedroom. Some of it the elf did not even touch, his _rage_ had been enough to displace it.

“I asked am I CURSED?!”

Next went the desk, and whether or not he flipped it with his hands or if his anger had done so for him, Annatar did not know. He really care didn’t either.

He didn’t care _how_ exactly it had found itself upside down, all that mattered was that it _had_ found itself upside down. And Tyelpe of all people—quiet, meek Tyelpe who couldn’t even hurt a fly—had suddenly switched.

 

It was said that Morgoth himself trembled in the presence of Fëanor, was struck immobile at the sheer force of fury perpetrated from the elf. Mairon had never understood how that could be possible, for he himself had never personally met Fëanor in all his fiery glory.

But Tyelpe was his grandson, and at the moment, was Feanor in everything but deeds, and by Eru Annatar _trembled._

“I do not know, Tyelpe—“  
  
“You  _do_ not get to call me Tyelpe anymore than my father gets to call me son, or my uncle gets to call me nephew!” he growled as he came forward, fisting the fine silk of Annatar’s gown into his hands, lifting him off of the bed and into the air.

Annatar could hardly meet his gaze, and it took what little courage he had left to stay looking at him.

Celebrimbor held him there and subjected him to a fire hotter than _any_ Forge he had ever stepped foot into. And had he not been so terrified of him, in his sickening rage, Annatar would have called the grandson of Fëanor beautiful, and he would have meant it.

Annatar could feel the _shaking_ in Celebrimbor’s grip, could see the possibilities of a suitable punishment flash through his eyes.

He was surprised that he hadn’t yet been hit.

“You…” he began softly, like the gentle rain that fell onto the earth minutes before the thunder followed in its wake, “You…you are not worth my anger.”

And he dropped him. Dropped him on the bed in a mess of golden silks and blond hair.

He turned his back then, the elf, and surveyed the damage in the roam. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groaned.  

“So what, will you kill me now?” He asked suddenly, turning to face the maia who lay crumpled on the bed, “And take Middle Earth next? And no bullshit please. I don’t want your excuses of a “grand” empire or whatever the hell you think you’re conquering the people of Middle Earth will mean for you.”

Perhaps a year ago he would have used that…excuse (and it was truly an excuse. He had not wanted peace,  he wanted revenge) to justify his deeds. But then again, he would have killed Celebrimbor as well.

 

“I don’t know—“  
“What—“  
 “I said I don’t know!” His voice came out as half-baked shout, cracking just slightly as a sob threatened to take hold of him.

He hadn’t known what to expect when telling Celebrimbor of his plans, but he certainly hadn’t expected this.

“Well what are your options?” He left no room for closure, the elf, instead crossed his arms and glared at the maia.

“I can’t kill you…”

He couldn’t even imagine _hurting_ Tyelpe. Not now. Not when he had been given a glimpse of the life he could life with him.  He had seen happiness, had felt it.

And he was _tired._ Tired of being angry, tired of wanting revenge, tired of _hurting_ and being hurt.

Now that he had a taste of this life, he couldn’t fathom returning to how it had been before. It made him sick to his stomach (end even if he didn’t get Tyelpe, he got freedom. Either way, it was worth it).

“I’ll leave. Leave Eregion and flee the region.”

“And what of your demon spawn?”

Baffled the maia raised a brow, quite uncertain of exactly _what_ the elf was referring to.

Irritated at his brain lapse, Tyelpe continued.

“The orcs, Annatar. What will you do with the orcs once you have disappeared? They will be without their leader and will be left to wreak havoc on Middle Earth.”

“I could kill them, it would be easy,” suggest the smith nonchalantly, waving his hand in the air, though curling his fingers at the frown Tyelpe directed towards him. 

“They did not want to be like that, you know. At least that’s what my uncle told me. Could you not do better for the orcs? Some of them elves _you_ corrupted?”

He considered the offer on the table. Yes, he _had_ corrupted some of them. But not all of them, some were born as orcs. And the others would not be the same even when healed. And could his power even been used to heal? He was still Fair, was he not? So perhaps he could. But then again, would he know how to?

Obviously irritated at his pause, Celebrimor cleared his throat loudly. Mairon jumped.

“I will fix them.” 

“Do you even know how?”

“It’s not impossible,” he supplied quickly, uncertainly.

Tyelpe looked away, and Mairon felt relieved to finally be free of his glower. 

“Those who are fixed, I will absorb them into my realm. It won’t be hard to lie about elven refugees,” he paused for a short while,  then continued, “ I’ll talk to Elrond about healing. He could enlighten us.”

“Elrond? Because the son of Earendil will extend his hand—“

“The son of a Kinslayer may be different,” Tyelpe walked towards the mess on the floor, bending down slightly as he picked up the desk and the chair, “He will understand. He will be angry—given your time with my Uncle in Angband, but he will understand. And he is my cousin as well.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Cousins can hate cousins,” argued the maia, seeing no relevance or intelligence in Elrond’s involvement.

“He is my cousin by _choice_ Mairon. We are hardly related, yet he calls us first cousins due to his relationship with my uncles, and will do anything for the last remaining prince of the line of Feanor.  Nevertheless, he will be useful, and that is all I will say on the matter.”

Had Mairon been his normally cheeky self, he would have congratulated Celebrimbor on his slick manipulation. Though sensing any snide comments would be inappropriate at the time, he remained silent.

When he had finished rearranging the desk, he sat, retrieving a scroll from one of the drawers and dabbing his pen into the half empty inkwell. Immediately, he began to write his letter to presumably Elrond.

“I will make your realm a territory of mine, you need only disclose the location to me,” Celebrimbor spoke as he finished, folding the letter into a square, “You will be citizens of Eregion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you rather be taken back to Valinor? Without my help they will find you, my cousin will contact them. You will _not_ be safe. You don’t have a choice, Annatar.”

That much was true. Galadriel would not keep her mouth shut, and killing her was no longer an option (it would be easy, she was arguably the weakest in the realm, though her death would cause Tyelpe pain, and he was _done_ with that). He would not be safe here, not anymore. 

As expected, had to make himself scarce. But at least he would have his realm, he would have his people, and he would have Celebrimbor.

He would have Celebrimbor. That was so odd.

“Why are you helping me? I thought you would—I thought you were angry at me.”

He stopped suddenly, letting the pen in his hand still above his paper. Small dribbles of ink stained the parchment, spreading slightly as the material soaked them up.

“Because you told me the truth,” he resumed his action, grumbling as he bypassed his ink blotch, “Because you want to change and you’re willing to make things right. You’ve gotten farther than my family has, and I think that means something.”

He felt touched and relieved all at once. He had thought it strange that Tyelpe’s anger had suddenly died down after his onslaught of questions, but he realized that the elf had his reasons for doing that.

He wanted to push him until he got his answers.

He said nothing, and was only mildly surprised by how utterly forgiving Tyelpe had been. Mildly, though. For he was a kind and gentle elf, despite the fire of Fëanor within him (Mairon knew this, and that kindness would have been used to his advantage had things not changed).

“And because I love you.” He didn’t look away from his letter, no matter that he had already signed his name at the end. He couldn’t bring himself to look, not when his eyes danced with unshed tears.

So Mairon made it easy for him. Stood from the bed and crossed the room in a swirl of glittering robes. He came to halt as he stood behind Tyelpe’s chair, inclining his body ever so slightly, so that his arms curled snugly underneath the elf’s arms until his hands meet across the broad chest. He allowed his head to lay on the Celebrimbor’s shoulder, closing his eyes as their faces touched.

“Thank you, Celebrimbor. Thank you so much.” He hugged him gently, nuzzling his nose into the space between his shoulder and neck, thus allowing the scent and the warmth of the elf to calm him.

Yes truly, Mairon couldn’t live without this.

“…Tyelpe is fine,” spoke the elf softly, “I like it when you call me Tyelpe better.”

Mairon nearly beamed.

“Then you may call me Mairon,” he supplied almost immediately, “Or Annatar. Or anything you like.”

He removed himself from his elf and stood beside him smiling, “I will go now, to my people. I don’t know how long it will take to save them all, and I don’t know how much energy I will need to use. This may be the last time I see you in Eregion for an age, Tyelpe.”

“Will you be alright?”

“I’ll live,” he responded honestly, “do come and visit me though. Not now, of course, but when my realm is beautiful enough to put Eregion to shame.”

The elf chuckled, enjoying the familiar competitiveness reawakening in the maia.

Just as he made to leave, Tyelpe reached out and grabbed his gown and pulled him downwards.

The kiss was short and sweet. More genuine and meaningful than any act of intimacy between the two up until this point.

Mairon could hardly wait for their future together.

“Be safe, Mairon,” Celebrimbor was serious now, “And stay out of trouble.”

“I should be the one telling you that, Tyelpe. Your family has a thing for getting into deep shit.”

They laughed for a moment or two, though it died down into a rather sad silence after a while.  His departure was inevitable, and truthfully, neither knew what fate bestowed them.

“Take this please, keep it until I return,” Mairon removed a simple, golden ring from his pocket, and placed it on Tylepe’s desk. The elf did his best to ignore the Black Speech engraved into the metal, for he knew exactly what ring this was.

But he sensed no lust radiating from the small jewel, only the love that had replaced the evil. And then he smiled, placing it on his finger.

The One was his, _Mairon_ was good, and Eregion was saved.

For the first time in ages, Celebrimbor breathed happily. 

**Author's Note:**

> DONE. This took way too long to write, but I wanted to make sure it was worth the read. As always, tell me what you thought of it!  
> In a darker more siniste Mairon is just a lying hoe and the moment Tyelpe puts the ring on his finger, turns out to be an elven ring (or the one, you pick) and Mairon has full control of him. But that is for later, this is for now. Hope you enjoyed it :)


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